


A Game of Thrones: A Star Wars Story

by SaddleTramp



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 17:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13322691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaddleTramp/pseuds/SaddleTramp
Summary: As the Rebel Alliance and the Empire continue their civil war, the Westerosi sector is on the brink of civil war. Robert Baratheon is trying to keep the kingdoms from fighting, while Daenerys Targaryen seeks to reclaim a throne she sees as rightfully hers. Jon Snow is learning how to control his Force powers from Aemon Targaryen on the independent frigate Night's Watch while Ned Stark is simply trying to protect his family.And Grand Admiral Stannis Baratheon keeps a wary eye out on his enemies while also learning about a mysterious threat emerging from the Unknown Regions...





	A Game of Thrones: A Star Wars Story

King Robert Baratheon was a hard man to deal with, Tyrion Lannister knew, and so was his brother, Grand Admiral Stannis Baratheon. Both were warriors, having fought in the Clone Wars and in the civil war that followed which resulted in the overthrow of the Targaryen dynasty and installed the Baratheon one in its place.

The Westerosi sector was situated in the backwater of the Empire. Wild Space, was that, wild. Home to several solar systems, it was the last stop before the Unknown Regions, home to the unknown. Stories of blue skinned Chiss were the main rumors of the day and Tyrion had heard of the rise of a certain one who went only by Thrawn.

The former Senator of the Westerosi sector served as an informal adviser to the king, ever since the Emperor dissolved the Imperial Senate after the Battle of Scarif. It wasn’t like Tyrion was doing anything important anyway; Westeros was never on the mind of anybody, not even of their sister sector, Essos, which was richer and far more influential.

“What do you mean we don’t have the credits?” the king demanded, slamming a meaty hand into the table. “Tell Baelish to get more then!”

Tyrion sighed. The king was on edge ever since the death of his chief adviser, the Governor of the Vale System, and was spending more than ever. Raising taxes, tariffs...it was going to be an economic nightmare soon.

“That’s the problem, your grace, we don’t have a revenue stream. Your kingdom is billions in debt. Raising taxes again will cause grumbles amongst the populace and raising tariffs will only result in making things _more_ expensive,” Tyrion explained for the umpeeth time. “And it doesn’t help that the Empire is taking more and more, as little as that more may be. Ever since the Rebel Alliance’s victory at Yavin, the Empire is demanding more of us, especially of our doonium .”

Tyrion did pity Stannis. The man had served in the Galactic and Imperial Navy, gaining a reputation for his harsh yet effective command. The Iron system, home to scattered asteroid belt rebellious colonies ruled by Governor Balon Greyjoy, had been his last test, where he had destroyed the fabled ‘Iron Fleet’ in the Battle of  Fair Isle. The governor had been stripped of his rule but had been allowed to live in obscurity, though his son was now a virtual prisoner on Winterfell.

“Seven damn them then!” the king gritted out but knew that it was near useless to resist the Empire, even with their chief death machine destroyed. “Seven damn them all! First Arryn dies, then the Rebels destroy their godsdamn battlestation, and I can’t keep spending _my money.”_

 _You mean my father’s money._ Governor Tywin Lannister ruled the Westerlands system from his fortress world of Casterly Rock where the doonium mines were plentiful and made him the richest man in the sector.

“You need a new chief adviser,” Tyrion decided to say instead. “A new Hand of the King, otherwise you’ll keep running your kingdom into the ground. I’d suggest my father, but I know that you’ll reject that advice out of hand.”

Robert snorted.

“That is why I recommend Stark.”

Robert looked at him with surprise and suspicion in his eyes. Eddard Stark was the Governor of the North systems, which comprised of half of the sector. He was one of the most powerful men in their part of the galaxy, having also fought in the Clone Wars and the civil war, in addition to helping stamp out the Greyjoy Rebellion. He was honorable and straightforward, both weaknesses in the Imperial Center, but strengths when dealing with the independent minded people of the Northern systems.

There were rumors that he was a Force-Sensitive, but he waved them aside, for he was loyal to the Empire and the Seven Kingdoms, and it didn’t matter if he was one. He did worship what was known as the Old Gods, though the Seven was the main religion in the Westerosi sector, not that ancient Jedi nonsense and the few Force-Sensitives in the area either kept to themselves or joined the Faith.

“I haven’t seen Stark since the Greyjoy Rebellion. Gods I was strong then,” Robert murmured, no doubt remembering his days as a warrior when he was a maiden’s dream. _Gods help us._ “He was my best friend and I was supposed to marry his sister before that whoreson Rhaegar took her from me.”

Tyrion knew the story well, even if he had been a boy during the civil war. Robert had come back from his service as an officer in the Grand Army of the Republic in order to take over as Governor of Stormlands system, which had once been his father’s seat. Prince Rhaegar, the heir to the throne, had kidnapped Lyanna Stark for some unimaginable reason and sparked a civil war which resulted in the overthrow of his family’s dynasty.

“Stark is a honorable fool, but he is the man we need. _He_ can keep your finances in order while we have Baelish try and get some of the Empire’s fingers out of our pie, so to speak. He’s the Moff for a reason,” Tyrion grimaced. He hated Baelish, but the man was perfect for dealing with the politicians and sycophants on Coruscant. _Went from rags to riches, the son of a poor merchant to becoming an Imperial Moff. My, life can be strange._ “Plus he’s not a sycophant who will bend to your every want _and_ has the ability to make you listen once in a while.”

“This is all my fault, then? Is that how you speak to your king?” Robert said sharply, using his ‘kingly’ voice that only came out when he needed to exercise his authority. Tyrion rolled his eyes.

“That is how I talk to my king because you need this. You’re an insufferable fool, but you’re also the only reason this entire sector has not fallen into civil war.”

Robert looked at him with angry eyes and Tyrion started to worry. He had seen Robert’s wrath before, but that had been aimed at his sister, the various advisers who came and went, and once even Baelish. The two had a common bond over drinking and whoring, but that bond may not cover him this time.

He braced for the wrath. He knew the scars and welts that his sister faced and how she repaid him back with her golden children.

Robert, however, instead laughed from his belly before reaching out and slapping Tyrion on the shoulder. Tyrion winced in pain, noting that despite Robert’s fat, he was still a strong man.

“You’re right Tyrion, you’re absolutely correct. Send a message to Lord Stark. I’ll be visiting him soon.”

_"A line break? Right in the middle of the story? How could you!"_

“Concentrate Jon,” the old voice told him. Jon did as he was told, holding the block in the air, his hand extended. He dipped into the Force and willed it to continue what he had been doing.

“Do not allow yourself to be distracted. Feel the block, immerse yourself in its energy,” Maester Aemon urged him. “Rotate it and do not drop it.”

Jon concentrated it, focusing all of his energy in rotating the block, watching the cinder go left and then right, up and then down. He relished in its energy, feeding himself and the Force around him.

“Good. Now put it down, _gently,”_ Aemon instructed and Jon did just that, letting it fall to the ground with the same care a mother put her newborn babe to sleep. He didn’t realize that he was sweating before he felt a bead fall to the ground, watering it with his life’s water.

 “Good concentration Jon,” Aemon congratulated him. “Your fine motor skills have improved immensely ever since you came under my tutelage.”

 "Thank you maester,” he said sincerely. “It means a lot.”

Jon Snow was the natural son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen, one of the last reminders of the old dynasty that had ruled before the rise of the Baratheons. He had been raised by his uncle at Winterfell, kept in the dark about his true parentage until he was fourteen, where he was then handed off to Maester Aemon to continue his training in the Force.

Aemon Targaryen had been a Jedi, once renowned for his knowledge of the old days, until he had retired from the Order before the Clone Wars. If it were not for that, he would have been marked a traitor to the Empire and executed.

The two were currently on the _Night Watch,_ a freelance Nebulon-B frigate captained by Jeor Mormont, who had once been a prominent warrior and politician in the Northern systems. It was crewed by a motley crew that seemed to be never permanent. The only exceptions were the heads of various departments such as Cotter Pyke, who was the first mate and Othell Yarwyck, the chief engineer.

Jon didn’t dislike them as he much as he disliked Alliser Thorne, who was the gunnery captain. When Jon was not training under Aemon, he was a gunner under Thorne’s direction, and he hated it, especially considering Thorne’s harsh leadership style.

“Can you tell me more about my father? Before...before he did what he did to my mother?” Jon cautiously asked, making sure that nobody was around them. The Targaryens were not much loved in the Westerosi sector, especially in the North.

“Your father was a dreamer. He had plans to build something truly great from this sector. Your grandfather used to write to me, before he went mad with power, that Rhaegar used to sit in the ruins of Summerhall and just sing,” Aemon said. “He was also proficient in the use of the Force. Fine control, very fluid in his fighting. A very emotional man, obsessed with a prophecy. But when I had heard he had died, I wept. The galaxy had lost a great man.”

 Jon took in the words from Aemon. He had heard stories from the various crewmen of the _Night’s Watch_ along with the citizens of Winterfell, but they had varied. The official histories from the Citadel were that Rhaegar had been a madman, a rapist, and a warmonger. Targaryen loyalists thought Rhaegar was this paragon of virtue, a person everyone should strive to become, murdered unjustly.

 He believed that it was most likely in the middle.

 His thoughts were interrupted, when general quarters was being sounded and Captain Jeor Mormont’s voice came over the intercom. His voice, as always, was stoic and calm, though his words were not.

 “ _All hands to battlestations. I repeat, all hands to battlestations. This is not a drill, I repeat, this is not a drill.”_

 Jon looked at Aemon, whose sad eyes were boring into his. The maester nodded.

 Jon left, heading to where he was needed most.

 


End file.
